


Cold

by Lotus_Dumplings



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Attraction, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Music, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Painting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 23:20:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19261204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lotus_Dumplings/pseuds/Lotus_Dumplings
Summary: Prufra threeshot for my child, Max! I hope you enjoy the first oneshot.





	Cold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [centralsaints](https://archiveofourown.org/users/centralsaints/gifts).



> Prufra threeshot for my child, Max! I hope you enjoy the first oneshot.

To say Francis didn't like competition was a huge understatement. He just couldn't stand opposition, and he most certainly didn't enjoy being down played. So when he met Gilbert Beilschmidt, the contempt was immediate. Francis didn't like his defiance, he didn't like his need to control, and he most definitely didn't like his narcissistic attitude. Gilbert seemed to think he was the best.

And—much to Francis' distaste—he wasn't wrong.

Gilbert Beilschmidt, the same Gilbert Beilschmidt who wore ripped jeans with his uniform top, painted his nails black and put on eyeliner, went to metal concerts with his brother, and just had the over all air of a lazy delinquent, was somehow a diligent student with a 5.0 GPA Average. It was baffling. How could someone—especially someone like Gilbert—go from so rowdy and loud to so serious and focused in seconds? His teachers loved him. The dean loved him. Everyone seemed to love him.

Everyone, that is, except for Francis. And it seemed the feelings were very mutual. 

Francis could feel it when he looked at him. He could feel the sharp dislike pierce through him. Gilbert's eyes were red like fire, yet bitter and intense. He never got to see any semblance of warmth in his eyes. For Francis, those eyes were steady and calculating. Cold. 

Who the hell gave him the right to be better than him? Who the hell gave him the right to be so infuriating? And who the hell gave him the right to be so damn _attractive_? 

Right, so it was rather stupid being attracted to the person he had an admittedly pointless rivalry with, but he couldn't help it. Gilbert had such a define jawline. Such soft, delicate skin and hair tones—which became incredibly striking against the dark colors he like to wear. Such beautiful eyes, freezing and rigid enough to capture his soul but too full of emotion and pride to capture on canvas. 

Truly the sketches of him were just as vexing as the man himself, for they've taken up quite a bit of space in his waste bin. Torn or crumbled out of petty anger or frustration, Francis could never finish them. And they plagued his mind just as Gilbert had.

The worst part was probably the fact that they couldn't seem to avoid each other. They both had the same AP classes and they were both members of debate club. They both got paired together too many times to count. Francis couldn't avoid his cold, hard glance and the conflicting feelings in his stomach. Especially seeing as they both had a mutual friendship with the cheerful, albeit not very bright, Antonio. 

Though, as Francis thought about it, maybe Antonio was smarter than he let on, because after inviting him and Gilbert to the boardwalk—without telling either of them the other would be there, mind you—he drove off, leaving Francis stuck with a walking migraine and no ride home. 

_Talk to him!_ Antonio texted. Had he found out about Francis' predicament somehow? He groaned in frustration.

"Hey." 

Gilbert groaned grunted in acknowledgment. His hands were stuffed in his pockets as he took long strides in front of him. "What?"

Francis hesitated a moment. "I don't have a ride." 

Gilbert stopped. He sighed and spun around to face him. "So you want me to take you home?"

"Well it's not like I have much of a choice. Antonio said he was going to drop me off at my aunt's house later. His texts indicate a change of plans." 

Gilbert muttered, "Fine, fine, whatever," before turning away again. 

Well, this certainly was not the ideal way to spend a Friday.

After the silence got a bit too awkward and Francis was starting to deeply regret ever indulging his Spanish friend, he finally decided to clear the air a bit. 

"Do you have any hobbies?" 

Gilbert blinked in what Francis could only guess was confusion. He mentally cursed himself. He could usually start conversation with everyone, why was it so difficult to do now? 

"Why?" 

"Well," he started, "We're stuck together and Antonio obliviously wanted us to try getting along, so I'm trying to break the ice." 

"With small talk?" 

Francis had to stop himself from physically cringing (that could result in future wrinkling) and nodded. He wasn't going to look stupid in front of some stupid potato head. "I don't see why not." 

Those red eyes bore into him, making him swallow. Hard. God damn him and his fucking sexy ass face. 

"I play flute," Gilbert said, finally. 

Francis raised an eyebrow. "Flute?" 

"What, is that hard to believe?" 

"Perhaps. You just don't seem like the type of person to play such a delicate instrument."

"Oh, fuck you. What do you do, anyway, pretty boy?" 

Francis glared. "I paint."

"Generic French dude thing, huh? 'Romantic' paintings that are actually practically nothing but some stupid strokes in the grand scheme of things." 

"Isn't music just a bunch of sounds 'in the grand scheme of things'?" 

"I guess you could say that." Gilbert shrugged. "But music means a lot to me. It's more than just sounds, it's finding meaning in unexpected places, stringing the notes together to hit a chord with a person, to make them feel. I guess." 

Francis blinked. To say that was unexpected would be an understatement. "Well, it's the same with painting. How can you call it simple strokes when an artist works so hard to portray something and everything that something means to them on a canvas? You know, both painting and music are forms of art." 

"I..." Gilbert stared at him. He stared back, stopping midstep. Time seemed to slow down, for just a moment. And then he grinned, breaking the spell. "I guess you're right. But painting is still super cliche." 

Francis frowned. "And playing flute is still completely unexpected, you undercooked sausage." 

"Fucking amphibian." 

They kept throwing insults at each other. Even after they'd headed towards Gilbert's car. Though it was a bit different than usually. It held the bite, but lacked the venom. And then Gilbert broke into a loud, bellowing laugh. Francis stared at him, unsure of what to do. His laugh was cheerful, but unexpectedly deep, sending sparks down his spine. 

"Get in the car," Gilbert gasped, "or I'll leave your ass in the dust." 

The drive itself was quiet, in order to get him home with as little difficulties as possible. Say what you will about Gilbert, but one thing's for certain: he had a need for efficiency. Francis didn't mind much, though. It gave him time to think. 

When they pulled in, Gilbert squinted, as if committing the house to memory. His eyes were focused and keen. But when he turned to him, his eyes seemed to thaw a bit. 

Just a bit, of course.

"Get the hell out of my car." 

The familiar—and admittedly annoying—feeling of attraction bubbled in Francis' stomach. Something else was there, too, but he paid it no mind. Rather, he huffed and crossed his arms. 

"Gladly." 

He tried to capture it again that night. He tried to capture the look of his laughing face and his mischievous grin and his slightly warmer gaze in hopes it would finally stop plaguing his mind. But he could never quite capture those cold eyes.


End file.
